


Pretense

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-16
Updated: 2018-09-16
Packaged: 2019-07-12 21:46:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16003943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Maedhros sees Fëanor pushing Maedhros too hard.





	Pretense

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Fill for hopelesselffucker “[a kiss] in secrecy maglor/maedhros” request on [my tumblr prompt list](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/post/176075204220/prompt-list).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Silmarillion or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

Nelyafinwë always feels guilty beating his brothers down into the dirt, but it’s a necessary evil—his father natters in his ear to push _harder_ , be _fiercer_ , even though Kanafinwë has already yielded. It’s easier with Morifinwë, who will at least snarl back at him and fight to the very end, or even Curufinwë, whose sharp words can be such an irritant. With the possible exception of the twins, Kanafinwë is the most difficult—he breaks under Nelyafinwë’s sword and falls to the earth, his sword clattering down beside him.

“Get _up_ ,” their father presses, pushing them with a burning drive he shows nothing else but his forge. Nelyafinwë knows it doesn’t come from a place of cruelty, though it might seem so at times. He only holds them to the same high standards that he holds himself, and they flourish for it—they surpass all their peers by leaps and bounds, mostly because of all this fire.

Kanafinwë must understand that. He’s the wisest of all seven of them, and his understanding often surpasses Nelyafinwë’s own, but his swordsmanship doesn’t. He’s already panting, sweating beneath his training armour, and it glistens along his brow as he turns his dark eyes up to Nelyafinwë. Nelyafinwë stands above him, sword pointed at his face. The match is over. Kanafinwë murmurs without pause or fear, “I surrender.”

Their father’s sigh rings in Nelyafinwë’s ears. He isn’t happy, obviously, but Kanafinwë is resolute, and privately, Nelyafinwë respects that—knowing when to retreat is just as valuable a skill. He sheaths his sword at his side and reaches down to help his brother up—Kanafinwë takes his hand, and Nelyafinwë pulls him slowly to his feet. 

At a disapproving nod from their father, the two of them retreat for the nearby doorway, cut out of the stonework at the edge of their training yard. Turcafinwë and Curufinwë linger by it, leaning against the building, their armour on and their swords ready. Wearing unearned smirks, they saunter down for their turn while Nelyafinwë and Kanafinwë retire from practice. They duck inside the out building, and Nelyafinwë tugs the wooden door closed behind him, already tuning out the battle cries of his brothers. 

Still visibly exhausted, Kanafinwë slinks towards the bench at the end. He descends on it with his usual grace, but his posture then slumps uncharacteristically, his tired hands methodically undoing his braces. Nelyafinwë comes to join him and help. Though Nelyafinwë also feels the heat and tension, he isn’t quite as spent—he’s had more years of practice, and he’s thrown himself all into it. Kanafinwë has poured his passion more into the harp, and it shows. 

“You will be a great warrior someday,” Nelyafinwë suddenly notes, almost defiant to his thoughts, mostly just to break the silence. A small smile tugs at Kanafinwë’s handsome lips. 

He hums a quiet, “Someday,” and doesn’t comment further. In the meantime, he’s a gentle minstrel resistant to weapons. 

Nelyafinwë isn’t entirely convinced that’s a bad thing. As much as Nelyafinwë loves his father, sometimes he thinks that patriarch a little _too_ harsh on them, Kanafinwë in particular. Kanafinwë may not be especially interested in the field or forge, but his peaceful tendencies and music are just as invaluable. They deserve _some_ acknowledgement. In the absence of paternal praise that Nelyafinwë garners so often, he tells his brother, “You did well today. And the song you sung this morning by the fountain could have moved the birds to tears.”

Kanafinwë chuckles and smiles at him, kicking away the heavy boots and left in just light robes, albeit stained with dirt and dust. Nelyafinwë remains in all his armour—he isn’t spent just yet, and he thinks he might go join the others, once he’s sure that Kanafinwë is perfectly well. 

Kanafinwë tells him, almost slyly, “Do not let father hear that; he will think your standards are also going soft.”

Nelyafinwë laughs. “Then let this be our secret—I admire your softness.” Kanafinwë shakes his head, as if to be free of Nelyafinwë’s silliness, but his smile doesn’t leave him. Nelyafinwë leans in to kiss his cheek, privately displaying all the affection forbidden in plain view, where the mighty Fëanáro’s line is rigid and indomitable. Then Kanafinwë lets out a tranquil sigh and slumps down against Nelyafinwë’s shoulder. Nelyafinwë can feel the fight’s pressure flittering out of him, replaced with a sense of calm.

Nelyafinwë waits with him, absorbing all that pleasantness while it lasts, until their father fetches them for another grueling group round, and their pitiless facades must resume.


End file.
